


pretty sure i know you from somewhere (no, that’s not a pickup line)

by icedhotcocoa



Series: Bingo!!!!! [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inceptiversary, Community: trope_bingo, Inception Bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 05:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20420504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedhotcocoa/pseuds/icedhotcocoa
Summary: Eames meets Arthur for the first time. Arthur does not meet Eames.





	pretty sure i know you from somewhere (no, that’s not a pickup line)

Eames wakes up.

The dim light of sunrise barely shines through the crack between the curtain, creating a line of stark light in the dark of the room, snapping him into reality. He rolls over into his side and groans, fumbling for his incessantly ringing phone. 

His hand finally finds it and he snatches it up, sparing a brief glance to check the time. 5:58 AM. He huffs when he sees the caller I.D.

“I adore you, you know this, but it’s six in the morning. What on God’s green earth could you  _ possibly  _ need?”

He twists around in the sheets and sits up, tucking the phone between his shoulder and his ear. “Oh, really?” He murmurs, barely paying attention. Something falls out from the bed sheets to the floor with a soft clatter.

“Uh-huh,” he says absentmindedly, peering over the edge of the bed in search of the item. 

There is a gleam of red against the dark brown of the floorboards. He picks it up with two fingers and holds it up to the light, squinting at it. The translucent red shimmers in an eye-catching display, like it is radiating light and not merely reflecting the Sun’s.

A die. He’s fairly certain it’s not his.

A headache dully thrums behind his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tosses the die onto his bedside table.

“Sorry, what was his name, again?”

***

“Arthur?”

The man looks up.

“You recognize me?” The man—Arthur—frowns, eyebrows furrowing.

Eames laughs. “What, you didn’t think I’d pester Kiera into sending me a photo before setting me up with some bloke?”

“Oh,” Arthur says. His expression clears, slightly. “Of course, I‘m sorry. Eames, right?” He stands, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, love.”

Eames doesn’t really do blind dates. Or, as of late, dates in general.

It’s not exactly a choice that he made, he simply hasn’t been having much luck these days. Yusuf accuses him of being too hung up on romantic ideals and he’s beginning to seriously consider it. It’s just that—

Every time he meets someone new, he feels like he’s missing something. It almost feels like guilt, like some strange regret as if he’s being unfaithful to a nonexistent partner who he has devoted his life to, or maybe some so-called soulmate he hasn’t met yet.

Yusuf is definitely right. He needs to get a grip.

So, when Kiera approached him with the offer of a friend she was just  _ sure _ he’d get along great with, he didn’t have high hopes. But she’s not really the type of person you can just say no to. Keira is thirty-two yet acts about ten, minus all of the annoying tantrums and plus some scientific genius. She is sweet and genuinely means well, and, hey, no one could expect Eames to say no to that. 

Arthur must have gone through something similar with Keira, Eames muses. He seems a little detached from his surroundings, as if he’s worried about there being something else he should be focusing on.

Arthur is nice enough, though. When he smiles, it is reserved and friendly, the corners of his eyes creasing. Eames fleetingly wishes he would do it more.

“You paint?” He says when Eames mentions it in passing conversation. 

Eames chuckles, shaking himself out of his strange thoughts. “Yes, I do. Somehow managed to make a living out of it, too.”

“I never knew that,” Arthur frowns. It’s oddly endearing, and incredibly distracting.

“Suppose it just never came up, did it?” Eames grins.

Which doesn’t make any sense. They’ve just met.

Eames’ headache is back.

***

“Would you say,” Arthur begins, then pauses. “Would you say,” he tries again, “that you’re… satisfied with your life? Happy, even?”

They are walking together down the sidewalk after dinner, shoulders bumping with every other step. The light from the streetlamps flicker periodically across Arthur’s face—or maybe it’s Arthur’s face that’s flickering. Eames smiles dimly, caught off guard by the odd question.

“I’d say I am,” he hums, half-truthful. “Things are peaceful, at least. I don’t know what else I could ask for, really.”

Arthur looks at him strangely. He looks altogether alien and yet far too familiar, crisp lines and a soft halo of moonlight. His mouth twists downward. 

“Of course.”

Eames was going to ask him what he means by that, why did he ask about that, anyway—but he is suddenly struck by a splitting headache. He stops dead in his tracks and touches his fingers to his temple, wincing. 

“Are you okay?” Arthur asks. Eames is not sure if Arthur sounds concerned, or just intrigued. He nods sharply. 

“Fine,” he grits out. “Been having this damn migraine all day.” 

Arthur touches his shoulder lightly, unnervingly solemn. “You should hurry home, you can take an Advil, or something.” 

“Yeah,” Eames concedes, “Yeah.” 

Eames continues walking, perhaps a little more hurried than before, until he glances back and notices Arthur is no longer following him.

“Arthur?” He turns around. Arthur is not there at all. Eames takes a few wary steps forward. A streetlamp goes dark. 

“Arth—“

Cool, solid metal presses against the back of his head. Eames sucks in a sharp breath.

“I’m sorry, Eames,” Arthur says from behind him. 

Eames does not move. “What are you doing, Arthur?” he says, calmly. He doesn’t know why he speaks calmly. He should be panicked, he should be afraid, but he feels nothing but strange, horrible relief. He doesn’t know why.

His head throbs painfully. It’s bordering on unbearable.

Arthur ignores his question. “It’s been nice, it really has, and I’m sorry to end our date so soon, but I’m beginning to forget. It’s hard to stay focused, here. We should do this again, later.”

“Forget  _ what,  _ Arthur? What do you mean?”

The gun feels like it digs into his skin. “You know. You  _ know, _ Eames, you’ve known this whole time,” Arthur insists. “It’s time to leave.”

Eames skull feels like it’s cracked open, a searing, pounding pain that he can’t ease and yet he can hardly focus on it.

Eames knows.

***

Eames wakes up. 

**Author's Note:**

> For the “blind date” bingo square.
> 
> I tried my hand at something other than comedy?  
It went,,, well, for lack of a better phrase, it went.
> 
> basically wrote this in a day so sorry for any grammatical errors! Please point them out to me if you find any.


End file.
